The Hanging Hill

58

Reginald Grimes sat behind the cluttered desk in his office on the second floor, staring at the wall filled with framed posters from the many shows he had directed over the years: Put On Your Shoes; My Gal Sal; Sing, Sing, Sing.

All had received rave reviews.

All had brought him glory.

But none of those triumphs could compare with the glory awaiting him when the full August moon rose in the east and he, the anointed one, performed the sacred resurrection rite with the two children.

His worldly cares and concerns, his fears and his hates, his loneliness and isolation, all of it was fading away now.

He reached into a desk drawer and found the special hat Hakeem had given him to wear in his role as high priest. A purple turban with a luminous emerald clasp at its center. Just like his grandfather’s. He placed it on his head. Felt its plump lushness.

There was a knock at the door.

“Mr. Grimes?”

It was Judy Magruder Jennings. The author.

“Yes?”

She was staring at his hat.

“Is that a costume piece?”

“Yes.”

“For Curiosity Cat?”

“No.”

“Good. Because none of my characters is a genie.”

Grimes assumed that the woman was attempting to be funny.

“Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Jennings?”

“Yes. I wanted to talk to you before rehearsal. I don’t think the lyrics should be changed.”

“I see.”

“So I’m not going to change them.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“It was simply a suggestion.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

“Is that all?”

“Yep. See you at rehearsal. Ten a.m., right?”

Grimes nodded slowly. He wasn’t even there. Wasn’t really listening. The woman’s words sounded like the wahwah blaring from the bell of a muted trombone. Reginald Grimes cared nothing for Curiosity Cat or the Pandemonium Players or the playwright currently darkening his doorway.

He was the exalted one, the high priest of Ba’al Hammon—the voracious creator, king of the two regions, and ruler of the underworld!